


ours is a slow march

by heylifeitsemily



Series: do android detectives dream of electric sheep? [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Injury Recovery, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 01:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20574467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylifeitsemily/pseuds/heylifeitsemily
Summary: Nick's not tired – not physically, even after lugging her half-conscious body half a dozen blocks and up three flights of stairs. Collapsing into the nearest chair is more someone else’s muscle memory than necessity.As for the extent of emotional exhaustion, Velma doesn’t like to assume.





	ours is a slow march

The radio works. Her hands are still shaking, she’s bleeding through her bandages, and the storm outside is rattling the panels overhead so loud she can feel it in her teeth. But the radio still works. Small miracles.

Nick sits in what’s left of a corduroy armchair, angled towards the door. He’s staring, she knows it, but he’s too wily for her to catch him in the act. His trench coat is draped over the back of the chair, soaked through, and the hat on his head isn’t in much better shape. The shadow it casts in the lightning’s clash makes a sorry silhouette on the flaking wallpaper.

He’s not tired – not physically, even after lugging her half-conscious body half a dozen blocks and up three flights of stairs. Collapsing into the nearest chair is more someone else’s muscle memory than necessity.

As for the extent of emotional exhaustion, Velma doesn’t like to assume.

Rads won’t have the same wear and tear on him as it would her, but if any more of that slop drips through the hole in his neck, they’ll have more than rust to worry about. Her side protests as she reaches for the brim of his hat, and the neon glow of his eyes snaps from the door frame to meet hers.

Those eyes still take her breath away a little. She tosses the hat to the foot of the bed. “How’s about you look me in the face and tell me what’s on your mind, Valentine?”

He gives her a once-over before shaking his head. “You look pale, kid.” Androids don’t twitch unless you’re sending volts through them, but his servos whir when he’s planning to move even if he doesn’t follow through. “Shouldn’t have been you on the other end of that bat.”

She hums. Doesn’t seem worth it to start the argument over again, and even less so now that the shock has worn off. Rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, baseball bat beats false ribs.

The rain lets up enough that she can doze off for a good half hour before being jolted awake by the thunder. Nick’s shifted so he’s leaning back in the chair, legs stretched out in front of him and hands folded on his stomach. He’s quick enough in looking back to the door to sow doubt, but she’d bet good money he was staring again. Concern or guilt or something she tries not to wonder too much about is waiting behind those golden eyes.

“If I do manage to fall asleep with this racket, are you going to wake me up every hour to check for a concussion?”

He sits up quickly, brow furrowing. “When did you hit your head?”

“Whoa there, cowboy, no head injuries abound. I just know you’ve a penchant for being thorough in this respect. Speaking of,” she pushes herself up onto her elbows.“I need a drink. Help me up?”

Nick shakes his head, but then his good hand grabs her right one, the other sliding under her back to rest flat between her shoulder blades. Tickles a little. It takes a willpower she didn’t discover until she turned 237 to keep from hissing between her teeth. The pain slides back into a dull roar once she's sitting up.

The water in her canteen has the same tang as that in the air, but whatever nausea it causes will be worth it in the long run.

Her right arm stays in her lap, not causing any trouble so long as she keeps it below her waist. He’s still holding her hand, thumb rubbing across the bandage wrapped knuckles before retreating back to the arm of his chair.

“We’re staying the night here,” he says.

“I know.” She meets his raised brow with a scoff. “I’m stubborn, Nick, not stupid.”

“You’re something all right.”

“Something good?”

His smile spreads over his face like a veil lifting. “Something charming at the least.”

He’s the first to look away. She lets her eyes linger on the bridge of his nose before doing the same, scouring the floorboards as though they hold a mystery they’ve yet to unravel. On rare occasions, they genuinely do. But the majority of the time, there’s no caper hiding in the shrubs or the wallpaper.

It’s just them and the trees, so to speak.

Once in a while she’ll catch herself running through memories, trying to figure out if she ever crossed paths with the old Nick Valentine. She must’ve – a lawyer and P.I. have plenty of chances to duke it out, though, granted, she didn’t get to put in a lot of time at the firm before Shaun came into the mix. She can conjure up the image of a private eye with reddish-brown hair and that same half-smirk, a beaten-up trench coat fluttering with the wind.

Might be a real memory, might be her imagination, but it all amounts to squat. She decided a while ago that the Nick Valentine sitting by her sickbed is the only one really worth knowing.

”Mind helping me stand up?”

“I’ve half a mind to push you back down,” he says, but still moves to help her to her feet. “How we doing?”

“Dizzy,” she mumbles. Gravity sends her forward, and his hands find her waist to keep her upright.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be moving.”. There’s no breath tickling the crown of her head, but there is the hum of wires and the rustle of fabric beneath her cheek.

“I’m not moving. I’m leaning.” She turns her head to rest against his chest. Nick doesn’t have a heartbeat to listen to, but the pumping of coolant is a soothing enough substitute. “See?”

“Haven’t had a dance partner in a while.” His servos are whirring, but his hands stay hovering above her waist. 

“It’s not dancing. It’s standing with support. I’m up for swaying, but you’re going to have to do the heavy lifting there.”

She can hear the strain in his voice along with the smile. “Swaying, huh?”

“Just swaying.”

Nick’s shirt smells like an electrified ash tray, and his hands feel like something unspoken when they finally land on her waist.

The rain echoes off the metal roof in time with a staticky Nat King Cole tune.

**Author's Note:**

> Once in a while I get hit with loving-Nick-Valentine vibes and really there's nothing to be done but this.


End file.
